Distraction
by Aimee Hartford
Summary: Post 5.2 "The Dogs of War", it's early one morning and Zoey is left alone with her thoughts. Angst alert! Rated K plus  because of what happened in the episodes.


**Category:** Angst**  
>Rating:<strong> K+ – just for the theme.  
><strong>Timeline:<strong> Post "The Dogs of War" (5.2). Major spoilers for that episode and the ones before.  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>"Oh, if wishing made it so." But as Abbey found out, it doesn't.  
><strong>Author Notes:<strong> This has been waiting to be uploaded for so long, I've finally decided it's time. It's not perfect and hasn't turned out quite how I'd imagined (and may be subject to minor editing sometime in the future), but I hope you enjoy it. It's purely angst without plot, but follows on from the end of The Dogs of War. Just a little fic about Zoey and her state of mind at that time. If you like it, please review! If not, preferably don't. With that, please read on!

It was five o' clock in the morning. Zoey was sleeping on the couch again with her head in her mom's lap. On her first night back, Abbey had slept very little, and just stroked her youngest daughter's hair and watched her sleep. By now, though, Abbey could sleep most of the way through, exhausted from the stress but finally able to believe her daughter was back with her for good.

Zoey had been awake almost all night, still feeling mildly achy from her bruises and being startled by innocent noises like the digital clock on the coffee table beeping when it reached the hour. None of this was new, and it didn't surprise her. But she had been asleep for a half hour during the night and woken up feeling panicked. As she struggled to work out why, her nightmare came back to her: a lot of darkness, a lot of confusion, and then a lot of pain.

It was not the first time this had happened, but she couldn't be sure which images in her memory were real and which were dreams. It made her feel sick just trying to work it out, so she stopped. A lot of regular thoughts were making her stomach churn at the moment.

So now she breathed slowly, steadying herself, and carefully studied the alarm clock with its luminescent turquoise color digits; she stared at the colon separating the hour from the minutes as it blinked steadily, representing the seconds. Such small amounts of time, so small they didn't get their own number but just a little blink as they passed, and yet, Zoey knew, they were so important. In a matter of seconds a flood could burst through sea defenses, a fire could break out in a forest or an earthquake could reduce a town to rubble. In a matter of seconds, war could be declared, a missile could be launched, or the President could be shot. In the blink of the colon on a digital alarm clock, you could drink a spiked cocktail, or decide to go to the bathroom alone, or be bundled into the trunk of a car and whisked away…

Zoey had to resist the strong urge to sit up very quickly and bury her face in her hands, or vomit. She didn't want to wake her mom, who was exhausted and would only worry if she was upset. So instead she closed her eyes, and searched frantically in the darkness for something else to think about. This only caused her mind to imagine her drugged self being transported in the trunk of that car. Her eyes flew open again and scanned the room rapidly for something of interest to distract her.

There was nothing. So she twisted sideways to look at her mom and judge whether or not the latter would wake up if she left the couch. Abbey looked sound asleep, so Zoey took a sharp breath in, held it and raised her head off her mom's lap. Abbey's head fell to one side but she didn't wake. Zoey pushed herself up and quickly escaped to the kitchen before she could knock anything over in her reckless haste.

She wanted it to stop. She wanted rid of the stress, and the irrational panic which overcame her when something made a noise or movement unexpectedly. She berated herself for being paranoid, but try as she might she couldn't stop it. There was a terrible, frightening and cruel potential explanation for every normal thing that occurred during the day. Of course there was. There always had been. But never had it seemed so real in her mind. And the night. It was like she was five years old again, seeing shadows and pulling the covers up over her head, trembling.

She ran water into a glass and took a large gulp. Then she sat down and rested her elbow on the island counter, and heaved a sigh before sipping at her drink again.

Since she had come back, her temper was unpredictable. Whatever negative effects the ordeal might have had on her mind were not fully formed. She felt angry now, and for no clear reason. She was emotional, confused and hurt. Her head was too caught up in all this to try and counter it. She wondered whom she was angry at. Maybe herself. Did she believe that she should be feeling better than this? Did she think anyone else did?

She gazed blankly at the bowl of fruit for a minute, deep in thought, then grabbed an apple and took a bite. She wasn't hungry, but she needed to be distracted.


End file.
